


I’m Moving Out

by knees_of_bees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, John Watson In Love, M/M, Moving Out, POV John Watson, Pining, Pining John Watson, Switch John Watson, Touch-Starved, Vulnerable John Watson, makeout, touch-starved Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knees_of_bees/pseuds/knees_of_bees
Summary: “You can’t move out,” said Sherlock.“I’ve made up my goddamn―“There were lips on his.It was still, and awkward, and he didn’t want it to end. John’s chest deflated and a high-pitched sound caught in his throat.Realizing this might never happen again, he leaned into it, hands searching for Sherlock’s waist.Sherlock pulled away. “That was rash.”John’s stomach plummeted.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 359





	I’m Moving Out

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him, poking at God-knows-what with a toothpick.

“Sherlock, I need to talk to you. It’ll be brief.”

He gave no indication that he’d heard. John sighed.

“I’m moving out.”

Finally. Sherlock stared up at him blankly, toothpick hovering. “You can’t move out.”

“I’ve sorted it out with Mrs. Hudson. It won’t be ‘til next Saturday, I just want to give you a heads up.”

Sherlock said nothing. Perhaps it was as easy as that. John turned to go.

“Is this because of the arsenic in the fridge?”

“Bloody hell, is that what that― No, Sherlock, it’s not because of the arsenic in the fridge.”

“Is it because I burned your green jumper?”

“You _what?”_

“I needed to test the flammability of 97% wool and 3% polyester,” he said simply.

“What, and my jumper’s the only fabric like that in all of London?! Don’t― I don’t want the answer. This has nothing to do with the jumper.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then turned back to his work. John took that as compliance and left.

~

The next morning, the arsenic was gone.

Sherlock’s projects no longer covered every surface, crowded instead on one small table.

John could shrug that off, but when he opened his drawer to find a dark green jumper with the tag still attached, he marched downstairs.

“What is this?”

“A green jumper,” Sherlock said without looking up from the paper.

“If this is suppose to change my mind, I’ve already told you, my decision has nothing to do with you.”

Folding the paper, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “The woman you had over last week couldn’t stand your nervous tics, so you’re not moving in with her. You don’t have the money to afford a flat on your own, which means you would need a flatmate. You have no friends, so it’s doubtful anyone has made you a direct offer, which means you are actively seeking a stranger to live with. Perhaps you’ve already found one. Which suggests that the living conditions here are unsatisfactory. Mrs. Hudson clearly isn’t the problem, and the layout is stellar for your price range, so the only reasonable conclusion is myself.”

“I don’t have ‘nervous tics.’”

“You needn’t consider me a friend, of course, but I can be a tolerable flatmate if you tell me your conditions.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, of course I consider you a friend. I just―" He exhaled through his nose with force, as if frustration would make him less vulnerable. “It hurts.” 

“What hurts?”

“Seeing you―“

Sherlock winced.

“―out here every morning, with your cheekbones, and your― when you forget, about being pretentious and it’s foggy outside and I just want to―"

He stopped, straightened his posture, and looked Sherlock square in the face. “Next Saturday. I’m leaving. Okay?”

He strode out of the room, leaving the green jumper in a heap on his chair.

~

Fog pressed up on the window.

Early morning light sifted through it, softening Sherlock’s edges, wading in his pale eyes.

Not that John was looking.

His open laptop and mug of tea provided an ample barrier. Apparently not for Sherlock, though, who broke the silence.

“What is it you want to do?”

John raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You said that in the mornings, you want to do something,” came the calm response. “What is it you want to do?”

John laughed, humorless. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“John.“

“You’re not a bloody idiot.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then it’s settled! No further discussion necessary.”

That worked; it was quiet. For a moment.

“I’d prefer if you laid out a clear explanation,” Sherlock began.

“What, forget your deduction powers upstairs?”

“Emotions aren’t always my-“

“Yeah, I’m well aware.” John slammed his laptop shut. “If you had an ounce of sensitivity, you wouldn’t bring this up.”

He shoved the laptop aside. Sherlock looked pleased at that, which made John want to wipe the smug look off his face in ways he’d do well not to dwell on.

Then Sherlock‘s expression shifted, eyes questioning.

“What if I wanted the same thing?”

“Is this funny to you?” John swung his arms up in exasperation. “I see, I see what this is, it’s all some big joke, well you know what? Some of us, some of us have human emotions, Sherlock, and I’d rather not make a fool of myself by spilling them when we both know nothing can come of it, okay? I’ll move out, I’ll be out of your hair, and we won’t have to talk about it again.”

“You can’t move out,” Sherlock said dumbly.

“Yes I fucking can!” John was standing now, gesticulating fiercely. “I’m not- I’m not at your beck and call, I have my own life, I don’t need― Oh, oh you’re standing up now? What, we’ll fight it out? Shut up, Sherlock, I’m not listening to your bullshit, I’ve made up my goddamn―“

There were lips on his.

It was still, and awkward, and he didn’t want it to end. John’s chest deflated and a high-pitched sound caught in his throat.

Realizing this might never happen again, he leaned into it, hands searching for Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock pulled away. “That was rash.”

John’s stomach plummeted.

“I didn’t plan to go to such means,” Sherlock said quickly, “but trying to reason with you wasn’t working so I employed a more direct method of communication. Perhaps too direct.”

Gut tied in knots, unable to predict where this was going, John merely waited.

“I quite like your company, John. Perhaps in more ways than merely being flatmates.” Sherlock was staring somewhere past him. “Forgive me if I have misinterpreted,” he added.

“Misin… Are you saying, are you telling me you reciprocate my, er, feelings?” John winced at his own words.

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Then I assumed your intent correctly. I can’t imagine why you have… feelings for me, but, yes, John, I― seem to have amorous feelings toward you as well.”

John’s breathing was shallow but he raised his brows, attempting to effect nonchalance. “Really? Because that weak kiss wasn’t convincing. If you want me to believe this, you’re gonna have to snog me a lot harder than that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said weakly.

Delicately, he curled his hand around the back of John’s neck. He brushed his thumb against John’s earlobe, tilted his head, and leaned in. Every movement was controlled, deliberate.

This time, when he pressed their lips together, it was with firm intent.

His composure dissolved the moment John started kissing him back. Desperate and clumsy, their rhythms collided. John drank in Sherlock’s vulnerability, savouring the way it mirrored his own insecurities these past weeks. Months, if he was honest.

He swept his tongue across Sherlock’s lip and heard his breath hitch. Something hot roiled in John’s lower abdomen.

Pressing a leg between Sherlock’s, he felt hands grip his back, but they couldn’t seem to get close enough, each press of their bodies too light.

John pushed him gently against the chair and Sherlock tumbled into it, pulling John down with him. They were a tangled mess of limbs until John, laughing lightly, straddled him. He leaned down, mouth landing on collarbone.

“I need…” Sherlock was breathing heavily. John was ready to give him whatever he wanted. “...a minute.” John pulled back.

“Want this,” Sherlock panted, eyes unfocused, “just not used to it.”

Though he was humming with arousal, John swallowed it down, giving him space.

Of course this was a lot for Sherlock. As far as John new, he’d never... Why had that not occurred to him?

John struggled to think what physical contact Sherlock had had with people in the time he’d known him. Come to think of it, how much physical contact had Sherlock had _ever?_

He could do slow. He wanted Sherlock’s body more than he cared to admit but more than that, he wanted Sherlock.

He stood, helped Sherlock up, and pulled him into an embrace. He held him firmly, their chests rising and falling together.

Turning his head, John placed his lips on Sherlock’s temple. Dark curls tickled his cheek. He stayed like that, as if with this press of lips he could convey how much he cared for him. As if a kiss to the forehead could hold that much.

~

“You told Mrs. Hudson?” John swept into the flat, door slamming behind him, green jumper fluttering with the gust.

“Told her what?”

“That you, and me, that we’re…”

Sherlock looked up. “She wanted to know why your plans changed.”

“And you couldn’t have made something up?”

“Why would I?”

John, unsure of how to answer, ignored the question. “Well, now she thinks we’re boyfriends.”

“Are we not?”

Something flitted through John’s chest. “We― I…” He stared at Sherlock, all soft skin and arrogance and steep walls and brilliance. “If you’re comfortable, then sure, we’re… yeah.”

“Good.” He turned back to his work. “Because I may have given Mycroft that impression.”

“You what?”

“He demanded to know why I didn’t pick up last night.”

“Well, now that all of London knows―“

“Now that all of London knows, I expect you’ll have no objection to going out for dinner tonight?”

“What, for a case?” 

“Maybe I just want to take my boyfriend out.”

John short-circuited at that word. It was strange and rather nice to hear Sherlock say it. “You know nothing about dates,” he managed.

“I’ve taken plenty of notes from you on what not to do. Besides, this case is brilliant.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Be ready at seven.”

“Kiss me first.”

John was a bit mortified that he’d said something so juvenile, but it didn’t matter because Sherlock was standing up.

He crossed the room, placed his hands on the wall on either side of John, and leaned down. His mouth was wet and warm. He bit John’s lip and John whimpered.

Embarrassed, John put his hands on Sherlock’s waist and spun him, pressing him gently against the wall, hands running up his chest.

John’s fingers found his neck, his jawline, and then they were in his hair, much softer than he’d imagined. He tugged on a curl and Sherlock made a noise. He could drown in that sound. 

A ding came from Sherlock’s cell. To John’s relief, he ignored it.

It sounded again. Sherlock started to say something, but it was lost in their mouths. He tried again to speak and John reluctantly pulled back.

“Have to check that,” mumbled Sherlock distractedly, looking at John. He blinked, and then grabbed his phone from the table.

The screen lit up and his eyes glinted with excitement. His voice was no longer muddled, a new sort of energy seizing him.

“This is good, John.”

“Right now, Sherlock?” John groaned. “Really?”

“Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“You said seven!”

“Change of plans.” 

“I am dressed,” he grumbled.

“You look hideous.”

“Jesus, thanks.” John shook his head, bit back a small laugh, and turned to go change.

He felt fingers brush his wrist and looked up.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock earnestly.

“What for?”

“For staying home.”

Sherlock’s hand was still hovering near his. John grabbed hold of it and squeezed gently. The pressure was returned.

“Home,” he echoed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments mean the world and a half.
> 
> (I’m practicing writing skills so criticism is welcome too!)


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